


Enough

by Jenwryn



Category: Bleach
Genre: Backstory, Episode Tag, M/M, Plot What Plot, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-04
Updated: 2009-03-04
Packaged: 2017-10-02 06:35:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/pseuds/Jenwryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ikkaku might not believe that he belongs in Soul Society, but he sure as hell belongs to Yumichika.</p><p>Backstory spoilers for Episode 119.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enough

**Author's Note:**

> Written after watching Episode 119 and squealing, very loudly, about the length of Yumi's hair.
> 
> Written in second-person; the POV belongs to Ikkaku.
> 
> Unbeta'd.

Yumichika Ayasegawa is really quite inexplicable. He's annoying, and vain, and he drives you crazy sometimes, so much so that now and then you find yourself cleaning your katana and wondering why the pair of you don't just beat the shit out of each other, and be done with the whole insanity that is your relationship. But that's just it, perhaps: you do _have _a relationship. Somehow, amongst the mirror-gazing, he gives a damn about more than just himself. You might not belong in Soul Society or anywhere else in the whole wide universe, so far as you're concerned but, after all the mess, amongst all the stinking crap that makes up the dregs of this existence and its tattered corners... you do belong to Yumichika.

 

Dusk is settling across Rukongai when you come home, if you can call this shambles of a house a home. Yumichika is kneeling on the reeds of the floor when you step through the door, and take off your sandals. He looks like rather a woman from this perspective, although you'd get a smack around the head if you said that out loud; the fading light catches _just so _on the fine angles of his face, spilling pearls and honey across his features, and brightening the long swathe of hair which hangs down his back. You want him, but he's made dinner, and you're hungry, and you know better than to skip that which he considers to be a beautiful etiquette, seeing as it would only end in pain (possibly yours) if you did. So you're polite, and you remember your manners. But when the games he likes to play have been played to their fullest, when your stomach is content, when the meal has been cleared away... when he lets the scrappy curtains fall together in a swayed-kiss of coarse cotton and melon sunset; then, then, it's time for the games you like best to start.

You bathe quickly, because these are the rules with Yumichika and, even if you don't think you were dirty to start with, the crease of his nose over dinner told you that he did. When you're done, you sit, naked but for a whip of towel, on the chair, spread-legged, and watch him pour himself fresh water. His bathing is an art form. It's all slow disrobing, with the swish of material slipping from his shoulders; it's all soft body encasing tight muscles; it's all dark hair needing to be bound up, to stop it becoming damp. The water spills and pools and beads across his skin as he washes, and you want to move to his side and lick at it, take it against your lips and make it yours. You don't, though. You just shift your bare toes in contented-restlessness against the floorboards, and watch.

Yumichika doesn't view bathing as particularly beautiful, but he seems to accept that you do. Sometimes he lets you wash him, sometimes he lets you dry him, and sometimes he just lets you gaze your fill, like tonight. Only after he has finished, and stands there, dry and naked, do you stand up. He smiles at the expression on your face, as he unbinds his hair to brush it, and you exchange positions, after he's placed a clean strip of cloth over the chair. You take the comb with a grunt, and he sighs, and smiles below low-slung lashes, as you begin to brush his hair, slowly and carefully, with both the comb and your fingers.

If anyone else were to see you doing this you'd have to kill them, and the death would be so swift that the pain wouldn't even register. But the two of you... the two of you are the exception to all your own rules, as you slide the comb through his hair; you keep at it until its darkness is soft and warm to touch. And then he's truly happy because, when you lean around to give him his comb back, he can read in your eyes that _you _find him beautiful and, hard as it is to comprehend, it's you he wants to be beautiful for. He says your name, and your lips meet, and he stands, and you hold him. His hands are hungry at your bare back as you cross the room in a tangle of feet and unspoken words, and he pulls you down onto the bed. He loves the feel of you, he says, his hands ghosting and gliding over strength that shifts tangibly beneath his touch. He mouths nothings against spidery scars which seem to make a life's chore out of declaring him a hypocrite, seeing as, surely, he would find them ugly in any other context; somehow, though, his whisper-kisses turn them lovely. Your towel is tugged away from you by his delicate, dangerous hands, and your bodies are pressed together as he wraps his legs around you and pulls you ever, ever closer.

And Yumichika Ayasegawa might be absolutely inexplicable at times but, as he closes his eyes and mislays himself in the midst of the things your bodies do to each other... ah, all you know is that, so long as that inexplicableness belongs to you, then you don't mind one little bit.

Because all you can see is the warmth of his touch, and the neediness of his hot-huffed breaths, and the way his hips demand more.

And because, when he comes for you, and takes you there with him, and then lays in your arms, all fine sweat and dark hair, and calls you _beautiful_, then you know, in his language, that that means he loves you.

He'll never say it any other way.

Which is alright, really, because you can't even say as much as that, at least not with spoken words. You leave it to your hands to express, as they trace the lines of his skin, and its afterglow, in silent declaration.

That's enough.


End file.
